A Hand to Tip the Scales
by themiscyra
Summary: When Meredith Walker is assigned Harvey Dent as a psychiatric patient in Arkham Asylum, she quickly begins to realize that she may have a more than professional attitude towards him. NOT a copycat version of 'MAD LOVE!
1. I Am Not Harleen Quinzel

**I don't want to be your other half;  
I believe that one and one make two.**  
Alanis Morissette

**Author's Note: **The **rating** is for violence, primarily. There will be (as far as I can see at this point) no strong sexual tones. Language may be rough in places.

This is an **AU** (for those of you who are not familiar with the term, Alternate Universe, ie: I grant myself permission to obstruct and/or ignore any and all other storylines within the target fandom—how humble, I know) story, first of all. If that's an immediate turn-off, then you may not find the end to your liking.

Meredith Walker is a creation of mine, as are a few other minor characters (if you don't recognize the character from anywhere, probably just a made-up thrown in for some filler, I mean, err, detail). No, she isn't modeled after myself (don't you hate it when people do that?), no, I personally do not have any obsession with Two-Face (though he is quite intriguing), and unfortunately no, I am not a Two-Face expert in the slightest.

As goes for all my works: **ANY and ALL reviews are appreciated**. I'd encourage you to be constructive of course, but if you think this is the worst pile of crap you've ever read (and then I'd say you haven't been on long, ha. ha.) then please tell me so: I'm a big girl, I can handle it, promise.

* * *

**Chapter One**

From the recorded journals of Meredith Walker, August 27th:

_I AM NOT HARLEEN QUINZEL!_

_How many times do I have to explain this? I'm not her, I'm nothing like her—this isn't like _that!_ Why do I feel like I have to keep analyzing myself, like I'm doing something wrong? It's not wrong, it's not wrong to be in love. _

_Christ, I'm a _doctor,_ I don't know how I could have let this happen. _

_The truth is, I know that I should see something wrong with it._

_The truth also is, that I know that it's the most right thing in the world._

_Look at me—I'm already started to deal in polarities. What am I going to do? I can't handle HIM knowing, that's what makes it so bad, that's what makes it unbearable._

_HE's just waiting for me to completely lose it, waiting for me to start some killing spree. It's the sad look in HIS eyes, and it probably doesn't help that I know, that I figured HIM out. It doesn't help that I had his respect. It certainly does not help that I may still have that respect._

_But this isn't like that.  
I am not Harleen Quinzel.  
I will never be a _Harley Quinn.

_I'm curing him—doesn't that matter?_  
_So what if I fell in love.  
Maybe that's what it took._

_The phone-  
Arkham-_

_ god help him-----no, that isn't right.  
gotham—save him._


	2. Five Years of Walking

** Author's Note:** I labeled the opening page as chapter one, when it really isn't—it's more of a prologue or an introduction, building a sense of suspension more than any character development or plot points.

* * *

**Chapter One** (for real!) 

Meredith Walker found herself in a place she had always promised herself that she'd never return to—Old Gotham. The smells and sounds were familiar, as if in twenty years (18 years and four months, more precisely) nothing had changed; and not much really had, she realized. There were more children out playing in the street, she noted, and wasn't quite sure whether she should be upset because of that or not—children were hope, but she'd never wish this kind of childhood on anyone.

The smells rose out of lower class kitchens, and she felt a hunger in her heart rather than in her gut; she remembered why she had come, and knew that she'd have to fight off a slew off memories. The ache in her chest persisted, rising up a nostalgia that told her that despite all the horrible memories this place brought back, the hometown feeling had caught her off guard. The woman, who was of average height and average build, took out a sheet of paper from the pocket of her old, battered jean jacket (she had known better than to wear one of her more expensive coats).

Checking the address for what felt like the thousandth time in two weeks, she began to shuffle down the dingy, broken-glass ridden streets, and come to a silent agreement with them. Both respected each other, and she promised that she'd continue to find the strength it took to get up every morning and try to repair the cities wounds (not just Old Gotham, but Gotham as a whole) if Gotham would send her back out of this hellhole alive and in enough pieces to do so.

Meredith let out a shaky breath as she stepped unto a porch that squealed under her feet. Not allowing herself time to prepare (because that might mean standing there on the stupid porch for the rest of her life), she quickly rapped at the front door to the crumbling brick townhouse. There was a sound of a television shutting off—abrupt silence—and light passed over the peephole in the door. A woman opened the door and Meredith felt her throat clench with emotion… but then it wasn't the woman she had expected, or if not expected, hoped for.

"Whaddya want?" The woman staring back at her was some two or three inches shorter than Meredith, had streaked red hair, and bags under her eyes that were so dark they looked like two-day-old bruises. Meredith nearly felt glad that this wasn't the woman she was looking for, relieved that maybe that woman hadn't come to such a bad fate—maybe.

"I'm looking for a woman named Amy-"

"We got plenty of Amy's here, you pay right and we've got plenty of whatever you want-" The sales pitch was dry and uninterested, and she felt a pang of hurt and guilt, less that she should have to hear it than that a woman who was probably ten years younger than her that by now looked ten years older, would have to say it.

"Her _name_ is Amy Walker, and I don't care about whatever else she goes by." Meredith said bluntly. She didn't want to be reminded any more of this part of Gotham life. The woman gave her a close, scrutinizing look—sizing her up and deciding whether or not she wanted anything to do with such a stranger. At long last she sighed, looked out over Meredith's shoulder, her hands planted on her hips.

"She aint here no more. I heard she was knocked up by some roughneck thug, and I don't need to be feeing a baby that cain' even earn itself, specially if it means trouble for tha rest my girls, you hear?" Even though the woman was trying her damnedest to look tough and hardened, Meredith had an excellent background in reading body language, voice inflections, and best of all—eyes. This woman (though Meredith supposed she could still be considered a girl by some of society's standards) was worried. Again she gave Meredith a hawk-like glare, and let out another sigh. "She's back on the streets. Walk about five more blacks down this road—she should be 'round there. If she ain', check the alleys."

Meredith grimaced, nodded, said her thanks.

"Whatchyou come round fer her for anyway?" The woman leaned against the doorframe. "She don't do female jobs, fars I know—and we've got girls that do."

"She's my sister," Meredith answered, turning away. The sound of her tennis shoes on the sidewalk beat in her hears, a rhythm she knew in her skull and deep in her gut.

Walking again.

- - -

"Amy?" The woman before Meredith turned, and unlike the other woman, the redhead one in the brick townhouse (that was also a sort of brothel) the dark circles under this woman's eyes _were_ bruises. Meredith felt her gut tighten and she knew: _After all these years of searching, after all of the walking, I found you,_ she thought to herself. _We can go home and you can leave this behind._

"Do I know you?" Amy Walker asked the sister that she hadn't seen in over 18 years. Meredith wasn't hurt that her sister didn't recognize her—it had been so very long, and there were so many sharp, rocky places in each of their pasts (one more so than the other, admittedly). Instead she stepped closer to her sister, unable to keep herself from tearing up.

"Amy, it's Merri," She whispered, finding it suddenly difficult to speak. The other woman looked confused for a moment, her bruises that she had tried to hide under layers of foundation make-up showing through, even in the dark. "I've been looking for you for the past five years, I didn't even know you were still in Gotham." Meredith wiped at her tears, hating her blurred vision—all she wanted to do was keep looking at her sister, maybe afraid that if she closed her eyes, the other would evaporate. They didn't look much alike, not anymore: instead of the auburn hair that both Meredith and her had shared as girls, Amy had bleached her hair blonde; her form was rail-thin—her lips were puffy, as if she'd recently been hit in the mouth. Meredith was a few inches shorter, though if Amy had kicked off her heels that would have changed.

The two stood, one trying to keep herself composed, restraining herself from taking the two-years-older, battered woman in her arms (though there was little else she could think of wanting to do more at the time), while the other seemed to watching incredulously, unable to keep herself from scowling in her disbelief. Meredith took another step closer, her arms raised slightly, almost hoping to embrace her sister—Amy Walker cocked her hand back, and before Meredith could react, her sister's knuckles collided with the side of her face in a stinging, numbing, backhand slap. Tears flew from Meredith's cheeks, knocked there from the force of the hit. She grimaced, not feeling anger, but only shame and hurt.

"I'm sorry," She whispered, able only to look at the ground, while her sister stood tall and huffing in rage—shaking. Then there were arms around her shoulders, and Meredith could see nothing but the unnatural, bleached blonde hair in her face. "I'm sorry," She repeated, but her sister was shaking her head, hushing her, and crying.

"I shouldn't have hit you," Her sister warbled, her voice unsteady with tears. "I'm sorry. It's just been s-so-"

"I know, but everything's okay now. Everything's okay," Meredith rubbed the woman's back and shoulders, running her fingers through the foreign, artificial-looking hair. "I'm going to take you home, okay? Back to my home, out of Old Gotham." Her sister choked a cough, and nodded. When she stood back the both of them looked at each other again, inspecting each other, running their eyes over each other's faces—remembering and building for new memories. "Here, my car's a few blocks back. Let's get out of this place." They both began the walk backwards, back home. Walking hand in hand the years of hardship and separation seemed to slide off, with the soft padding sound of one woman's sneakers, and the hard clips of the other woman's heels.

"You know, Meredith, I-I don't know how to say this but-" Amy squeezed her sister's hand, and her lips pulled tight, as if bracing her mouth for what she knew she had to say. "I'm pregnant, and I'm keeping the baby—I'll work as many jobs as I need to, to do my share and all, but-"

"It's okay, don't worry about it. I think it's beautiful and you don't have to worry. We won't be rich, but we'll get by. I knew, I found out when we finally got a hold of you," Meredith reassured her sister.

"Who told you? I mean, how did you find me?"

"I hired a detective."

"Like a private eye? That kind of thing?" Amy smiled in spite of herself, musing the idea. It was a fun idea, the kind of thing she could remember from the days of cartoons, when she was still young enough to be allowed to be innocent.

"Yeah," Meredith returned the smile, and had to look back at the street out ahead of them—still uncomfortable with crying in front of her sister (in front of anyone). Tears slid silently down her cheeks, leaving small wet drops on the asphalt as she past by—she had found her sister. After five years of searching, and many more than that of hoping, she had found her. It didn't matter to Meredith about the baby, if anything, she only took that as a sign of fate: just in time. _Just in time to save one more life,_ She told herself, unafraid, and both were absorbed so completely in the idea of rebuilding a family, that neither noticed the black car slowing to a stop, just a short distance away.


	3. Tragedy in Old Gotham

**Chapter Two**

"Hey there, Amy," A voice growled maliciously from behind the two women—as Meredith turned to face the voice, she felt her sisters grip tighten painfully on her hand. There were a few chuckles, and when Meredith was able to see, she counted four men; one had a baseball bat, and Meredith noticed bulges in the waistbands of others that could only mean guns (in Meredith's line of work, you learned how to recognize when someone was carrying anything that could be used as a weapon).

"Oh," Meredith's sister squeaked out, and Meredith felt both hers and her sisters stomachs drop into their shoes. _This is what that woman was talking about, _Meredith realized. _The thugs._ Instinctively, without a second glance at her sister's face, Meredith knew that these were also the men that had beat Amy—and one of them was ultimately the father of the child that Amy was carrying. "Oh."

"Whassa matter baby? And where you goin' with this laydee—last time I check, you dun do girl-jobs," The ringleader stepped forward, a large man that was probably of some kind of Hispanic descent—Meredith felt the basic, primal urge to keep walking, but she knew that it wasn't going to help. _These men are out for blood,_ she recognized, and her veins ran ice water instead of warm blood.

"Tommy, look, I'm just goin' out with oneuvthe girls is all. Night off, is all." Meredith heard the fear in her sister's voice, and knew that these men could smell it on her, like hounds—they each grinned, and watched both of the women hungrily. Meredith felt naked even with her baggy coat and jeans.

"Oh baby, you know you can't just be takin' a night off," The ringleader walked right up to Amy, and Meredith resisted the impulse to pull away—she wouldn't leave her sister standing up to this shark alone. A terrifying thought stuck her: _No, maybe you really are too late._

Meredith prayed to God that Gotham wouldn't betray her so cruelly.

(She should have known that God left this shit-hole to rot long ago.)

"You usin' my money goin' out then, huh? Goin' go get fucked by some other guy, that it?" The man grabbed a fistful of Amy's hair, and yanked downward, so that she was looking up at him—the other three men circled around.

"Let her go," Meredith growled, watching in an almost surreal disbelief that things could get so ugly so fast. "Let her go, damn it! Who the hell do you think you-" There was an exploding pain, much worse that earlier when Amy had slapped her, as this man (monster) Tommy backhanded her. She rocked back, but refused to fall—the world spun for a minute.

"You better watchyer mouth, bitch." The man sneered, and Meredith, if not for the first time in her life, than for the first time in a long, long while, wished she owned a gun. If not to use it, then maybe just to scare these men off—though she had a feeling that even a gun might not do that. "Comon' Amy, why'dja lie like that? This ain' one of the girls—girls know better than speakin' like that t'us." His hand migrated from her hair to her throat.

"I-I'm sorry, Tommy, really, n-no harm done-"

"Shut up bitch. Y'know, I'm tired of you running round on me." He yanked her upwards, large hand closing tight around her throat so that she made little gasping noises. Meredith started forward, but one man grabbed her upper arm, flung her backwards, breathing something foul about teaching her something into her ear.

"T-Tommy, you know the baby's yours," Amy managed to whisper out, and received a fist in her face for it.

"Shut up, whore!" Meredith smelled the alcohol on the man holding her, and realized something that made her knees go weak: they were drunk. Each one of them was piss drunk—they were liable to do anything. Her eyes circled around, watching hands creep towards guns. Tommy pulled out his, and pointing the barrel right into Amy's face; Meredith screamed against the hand over her mouth, and Amy's cheeks were stained with the mascara and black eyeliner that had washed down in her tears. "Y'wanna know how sick I am of your shit?" He cocked the gun.

Something metallic made a sort of zing! noise as it whipped through the air, and instead of the expected gunshot, Tommy cried out, clutching his right hand. In the sudden confusion the man holding Meredith loosened his grip—Meredith bit as hard as she could into his hand, and pushed herself away from him, running towards her sister. As Tommy staggered back, Meredith kneeled over her sister, who was gasping for air and had the look of sheer animal panic in her eyes. There was the sound of gunshots, and something dropping to the pavement behind them, but Meredith didn't care to look.

"Come on, let's go, come on." She put her arm under her sister, ready to run for both of their lives, when something hit her in the side, knocking her back, the wind gone out of her. She landed a few feet away, a piercing ache rising in her side—she had time to see the man that had had the baseball bat looking down at her, but now he had his gun out as well. Meredith watched his thumb pull back the hammer, and his index and middle finger tighten on the trigger…

Something utterly silent except for the faint, faint sound of leather wings passed over her, straight into the man—there were two gunshots, both were muffled. She lay breathing for a moment, listening to the sounds of the small fight: there were groans from the men, and the other—the other, the one that moved like smoke, or maybe ink in water, was silent, except for the light swish of its cape. Meredith turned her head side-to-side, looking for her sister, but didn't see her—she'd have to sit up to look.

Trying at first to sit up, Meredith fell back, surprised by the jabs of immense pain in her sides; she lay, unable to do anything but concentrate on breathing, trying to push the pain away until she could think again. _Oh God, please, just don't let my lung be punctured,_ she thought, trying not to panic: each inhalation was a fight to keep down a scream. _Broken ribs, that's all. Lots of people get broken ribs. You'll be fine. Get up._ This time, instead of trying to use her abdominal muscles, she planted her hands wide open on the asphalt, and pushing her body up, crying out weakly despite her better efforts not to.

What she noticed first was the figure in the cape—the one that was little more than smoke or ink. Meredith imagined that she could see a bust on the figure, and a decidedly feminine set to its hips—but to her, the thing was less of a human, and more of an angel: and everyone knew that angels didn't belong to either sex. The angel was breathing heavy, moving with little grace now; Meredith noticed that the angel was favoring its leg side, and its right arm hung somewhat limp.

_Shot,_ Meredith thought, the word closing off her throat. _Plenty human after all._ She watched in horror as the last man standing took a lunge at the caped angel—and her heart rose again as the angel moved at the last second, and the man was sent sprawling. He landed on his stomach, and turned to point his gun back at the angel.

Out of the corner of her eye there was movement—Meredith saw her sister crawling towards her on her hands and knees. There was another gunshot, and each woman looked in time to see the angel dive to her side, wounded though, she wasn't quick enough, and the bullet bit into her flesh, more than a graze. The angel staggered, and Meredith wondered for an awful second how many bullets that body was carrying; then the man lying on the ground turned his gun on the two sisters, and she didn't have time to worry about the angel anymore.

Meredith screamed, but it wasn't enough to drown out the sound of two gunshots—the first tearing through Amy's stomach, and the second through her throat. The man, Tommy, he kept pulling the trigger; even after the dead clicks told him that there were no more bullets left to fire, he kept pulling the trigger. Meredith watched as her sister's blood burbled and bubbled out of her throat—most horrible of all was the look in her eyes, the look of utter agony as she clutched at the hole in her stomach. Unable to speak, she mouthed the words 'My baby' over and over, blood running out and over her lips and chin.

Meredith stopped screaming, stopped breathing, stopped existing for a moment. All she could think was that Gotham had betrayed her, that after all that she had done, after her entire life trying to put this place back together, Gotham had betrayed her. The empty, dusty clicks of the gun firing nothing were the only sounds to reach her in those moments, as she watched her sister bleed to death.

_Too late,_ Meredith thought; her sister was dead.

_Too late_: as the angel climbed to its feet, dragged itself over to Tommy, and kicked the gun away from him. _Too late_: the angel hit Tommy, hit him, hit him, hit him—and even though the man was unconscious now, the angel hit him again. Only when his breath was shallow from the blood running down his throat from his broken teeth and shattered nose, only then did it stop.

The angel rolled off of the prone man, and laid half propped up against a brick wall, gasping for air, not even bothering to address its wounds. Meredith understood immediately: her sister had died, and the angel blamed itself—to allow such a thing to happen was worse than death. The angel didn't care about the bullets anymore, didn't have to will to. The angel wanted to crawl away and be allowed to die with its wings crumpled beneath it, shamed and alone.

Meredith took a gulp of air, and a last look at her sister.

Dead, without a doubt: dead.

But there was someone still alive that needed her.

_Get up._

She did.


	4. A Call for Help

** Chapter Three**

The angel was a woman, and if Meredith hadn't been sure before, the yellow outline of a bat on her chest was enough to explain everything. There was a horrible second where Meredith was tempted to remove the woman's cowl. She was so disgusted with herself for thinking it that she had to lean over and vomit. When that was done, she crawled the rest of the way to the angel, the Batgirl.

The angel lifted her head for a brief second, chin coming off her chest: but again, the will to resist had gone out of her—failure was not an option to her, and she had failed. Meredith felt her insides pang, and she did a scan to see the obvious wounds, and what she could do: she was a doctor, but not quite the kind that dealt with physical injuries, and definitely not anything so serious.

"Shh, angel, don't move. It's going to be okay, don't move. I won't take off your mask, don't worry. You're safe, just relax," Meredith cooed as she passed her hands over the woman, finding the wet spots where blood seeped out of the costume. _This is reinforced stuff,_ she thought, and that gave her some hope—so far she counted three major bullet-holes, but if this costume was made out of tough stuff, that might be enough to slow the bleeding enough to-

_Enough to what? There's no one here that will help, and if they take her to a hospital, they'll know her secret. Even then, they'd still be too late. _Almost as if by miracle there was a faint beeping sound, and then a light blue light flashing at the woman's wrist, on her gauntlet. Taking the woman's arm in her hands, Meredith pushed the concept of pain (which was roaring in her ribs, and again she hoped that she wouldn't end up puncturing a lung, or they'd both be as good as dead) out of mind. She ran her fingers lightly over the gauntlet in the same way that she had inspected the angel: it was a habit she had, letting her get a feel of things, mapping them out before jumping into anything.

She realized that a panel on the gauntlet slid back, and she pushed it back—there was a small screen there, like a tiny television, and Meredith was looking at a woman with glasses and red hair. "Batgirl, we lost contact with you, you're supposed to be with- Who the hell are you!" Meredith's eyes went wide, and she thought: _That's why they're so effective._ Then she put on her most professional face, and hoped that the pain in her ribs wouldn't interfere.

"My name is Meredith Walker and I'm a mental and emotional therapist for Arkham Asylum patients. Batgirl is here, she's hurt. She needs help _immediately._" The woman's eyes narrowed behind her glasses, and I turned the angel's arm so that the television screen could see the state that the angel was in. I turned the screen back to myself.

"She's taken three bullet wounds that I can count, there could be more—she needs help _now_. I guess you work with B-," The idea was so ridiculous to her, she had never really _believed_ in Batman, after all, that was children's stuff: still, what choice did she have now? "Batman—you have to get him or someone out here to help her."

Again, the red-haired woman (and this was a natural red, unlike the woman back at the brothel) squinted her eyes, her face fierce and confused.

"Look, just trust me. She's safe with me, I won't take off her mask. _You are not in a position to wait._" And then, because maybe Meredith had more bite when someone's life was in danger, she added, "Get someone out here _now._" There was no question about it: it was a direct order. The woman on the screen looked down for a moment, and Meredith realized that she was sitting at a computer.

"Done. Don't do anything stupid. Oracle out." The screen went blank. I put the woman's arm back into her lap, and held her chin in my hands—there was a silky, thin material that covered her mouth and chin.

"You're going to be okay, just hang in there angel. I'm sure you've been through these things before, just hang in there angel." There was no response, but Meredith hadn't been expecting one. She shrugged off her jean jacket, and found the bullet hole on the woman's right leg—using the arms of the jacket; she made a tourniquet out of the heavy denim, stemming the blood flow. Without regard to the cold, she ripped off her shirt as well, using the sleeves to wrap tight around the angel's arm, where she had also been shot.

As for the bullet in the angel's side, Meredith thought of kicking off her pants to tie around the woman's waist, but she knew that wouldn't do any good—instead she pressed down, trying to manually holding the blood back. Unhooking the angel's cape, she laid it around the angel, tucking it under her like a blanket, trying to keep the woman warm. All the while she spoke to the angel in a quiet, calm voice, and the sense of panic began to ebb, but fear for the angel's life began to steadily grow.

_She's not talking,_ Meredith kept thinking, afraid. Shivering against the cold night, she prayed that whatever help was on its way would be there soon; and she prayed that that help would be more loyal than Gotham had been.

Her arms began to ache, but she wasn't sure if it was really her arms or just the pain from her ribs carrying up into them. She didn't know how much longer she could put pressure on the angel's side, when there was a low mumble of something that turned to a dull roar. Meredith turned and saw dim blue lights first, and then a long, sleek sort of automobile came to a halt, pulling right up to the other (much less impressive) black car that Tommy and his friend's had arrived in. The top of the vehicle slid back, and (Meredith was still _surprised_ though she knew she shouldn't be) a man in a black cowl and cape got out smoothly and landed in a long, easy stride.

Again, surprised though she shouldn't be, Meredith felt her jaw drop at the famous yellow logo on his chest. Without a word the man kneeled down beside her, and put his arms under the angel—Meredith removed her hands, and watched him pick Batgirl up as if she was little more than a kitten, little more than a wisp of smoke, and carried her (with her cape still pulled around her like a child with a blanket) to the vehicle. He put her inside gently, and nearly as soon as he stepped away, the top slid closed, and the car raced off.

Shirtless, Meredith held her arms over her chest (and was glad, as stupid or materialistic as she would later know it to be, that she was wearing a respectful, plain black bra). The angel's blood was on her hands, and now it was on her shoulders and arms too, looking oddly cryptic and out of place on the woman's very light, almost caramel colored skin (her mother had been black with very light skin, and her father had been white). The Batman turned back to her, after pressing a few things on his gauntlet. His gait was unerringly menacing, and though she knew she hadn't done anything wrong (and so shouldn't have anything to worry about) Meredith dropped back away from him as he approached. Seeing that she was shaking like a damp leaf on a windy day, both from the cold, from shock, and from fear, he stopped, unhooked his cape, and handed it to her.

"What happened?" His voice was like polished wood; his voice was like gravel. Meredith took a large, gulping breath, and tried to get her shaking under control. She pulled the cape around her, and was almost instantly warmer—the material felt like one would imagine ink to feel, like you could imagine smoke to feel. Fighting down the urge to panic again, she took a few deep breaths. He didn't push her.

"I-I came to Old Gotham to find my sister," Her stomach tried to rise into her throat, and she felt the need to vomit again: Gotham had betrayed her. _You were too late._ She fought the bile back down her throat. "I've been trying to find her for five years, we were separated when we were children—she's a prostitute. She w-was I mean-" Despite herself, Meredith turned away, threw up for the second time that night: she was careful not to get it on the beautiful cape. Batman came closer to her, less menacing.

"You did well. You saved a life tonight." His large hand settled over her shoulder, not forcing her to turn around, but respecting her want for privacy. "Just tell me what happened." Meredith took another gulp of air.

"My sister was pregnant. Her boyfriend—he's the one who s-shot her—I don't think he thought the baby was his, or he knew it was and just didn't w-want it. So he and his friends went out and got drunk, and then came looking for her." Meredith set her jaw, straightened her back as far as she could with the pain ripping at her sides, and turned to face him. "The angel—I mean, Batgirl, she took two or three bullets before Tommy, before he shot my sister."

"You're hurt too, aren't you?" It was less of a question of whether she was hurt, than how badly and where.

"Nothing serious. A few broken ribs… I-I'll live, which is more than can be said for my sister." She screwed her face up, trying not to cry, tucking her neck down into the cape. Though he didn't show it, maybe couldn't have showed it even if he had wanted to, he was impressed: the woman had kept a level head after seeing her sister die, and had played a crucial role in saving Batgirl's life.

"I'm sorry." His hand squeezed gently at her shoulder. There was a beat of silence, and neither said anything, and both were perfectly okay with that. Meredith found it impossible to hold back tears know, crying into the cape, feeling like she was going to puke again. "Batgirl may have died tonight if not for you. Thank you."

"She'll live?" Meredith was relieved that Batman was confident about it—after all, he didn't seem like the type to be optimistic about things.

"Yes, I'm sure that she will, because you were able to help her in time." Meredith understood what he was trying to do: trying to show her that her sister's death was not her fault, trying to commend her that she had pulled herself together to save the other woman, the angel. It didn't make the sick feeling in her stomach any better.

"But…" Meredith felt her breath run out of her, feeling like it was really her spirit, her soul blowing out of her body. _But I wasn't in time for Amy,_ she thought, the cape damp where her tears were falling.

"It's not your fault," he soothed, and Meredith knew that it was the truth—and the same, she knew she'd never get away from the guilt. _He never did either,_ she thought to herself, feeling thunderstruck with clarity in that moment, peering at him from over her hands, which were covered with the cape and cupping her face. "It's not your fault," He repeated, and again Meredith could hear it in his voice, his own loss.

What could motivate a man to choose the style of life that he did?

The wrenching, horrible feeling of a guilt that she would never, ever outgrow— resting like a gluttonous serpent in her intestines—told her that maybe she knew, or maybe she could at least understand. After all, that was her job: understanding. For a second the woman nearly forgot about the cold and the dream-like horror that this night had been, and thought, _I'd love to take a look into his world._ That was her job, looking into the worlds that people constructed for themselves—only her patients were the kind that ended up in Arkham, their arms buckled to their sides. Meredith sobbed into the cape again, and thought, _but how different could this man be?_

"I'll stay with you, until the police arrive. I alerted them earlier, they should be here soon to take you to a warm place, get you a shirt and something to eat. You'll want to give a statement today, and tell them what you told me." His voice was gruff, even though she recognized that this was as gentle as it became. She wanted to collapse, wanted to scream and rip out her hair and wail, but she stood straight instead.

Though she could not see, could not know, Batman's glacial blue eyes watched her with a sad admiration; the woman had steel in her, that much was sure. The fact that she had chosen to save Batgirl instead of losing her head over her sister's death meant something to him that he could only describe in two words: pure steel. Even now she was fighting against despair, fighting against guilt that was undoubtedly eating her alive (Bruce and Batman both had experience with that) but she held strong.

_She shouldn't have had to be so strong,_ he thought to himself. _No one should ever be forced to be that strong._

Watching her, he remembered what Oracle had told him in that rushed and hurried few minutes: the woman's name was Meredith Walker, and she worked at Arkham Asylum as a therapist for the inmates. Batman was reminded singularly of Leslie Thompkins, though this woman was far younger. Each was a sort of doctor that put people back together again, and each had this same brand of perfectly humane hardness to them.

_Steel,_ he thought again, watching her from behind the white lenses in his cowl, wondering if and when she'd play another role in Gotham life, and how significant she would turn out to be. Something crawling under his skin told him that Meredith Walker had more to offer to this story, and he only hoped that she wouldn't end up in an Arkham cell, not a doctor but a patient instead.

In the distance there was the shrieking cry of police sirens, and Batman stayed with the woman until they both saw the first of the three cars pull into the alley.


	5. The Thankless City

** Chapter Four**

Meredith's questioning was held in the hospital, where thick medical tape and gauze was wrapped tight around her chest—setting her ribs in place. It hurt less to breath, but the pain was still sharp and still noticeable. A gruff, large man named Harvey Bullock came down, and though Meredith didn't really enjoy his company, he seemed to be well-intentioned enough.

"And you work at Arkham, eh?" He asked her, gnawing at a toothpick that seemed to be dangling from his teeth, barely gripped in his mouth.

"Yes."

"Says here you do a lot of work with what's her name, Poison Ivy. You just started now with Two-Face?" His eyes squinted, and Meredith knew what was going through his head: _He thinks I'm nuts for the job I do._ She got it a lot, and didn't have the energy to try to combat him.

"Yes, but it's much more beneficial to the patient to be referred to by their na-"

"Right then, yeah yeah, I know. If that's true and all, what do you call Joker?" Even lying on her back with three broken ribs (at they later found out, a minor concussion), Meredith felt her anger twinge at that. She didn't think that he was trying to start anything, and the woman had a feeling that being difficult just might be in this cop's nature.

"I don't work with him," She answered, trying to imply that it was a closed topic, but it was hard to get in different tones when you couldn't draw a decent breath without wincing.

"Ah, I see. Don't blame you." He made some other note on a sketchpad, the pencil he was holding looking incredibly thin in his ham of a fist. "Well then, that's all the questions I have for you. Sorry about your sister—don't worry about those guys though, all of 'em have past records and none of 'em are pretty. They'll be sitting in those cells for a long time." _One of those types,_ Meredith thought, trying not to let herself grimace in annoyance. _Gives the promise of revenge in the same heartbeat as tough-luck compassion. Those types._

He shook her hand, and bustled his way out. Meredith lay back in her bed, and though she knew that the angle would have been uncomfortable any other time, all she wanted to do was sleep. Her final thought before relinquishing consciousness was even that she shouldn't be able to sleep, that she should still be sobbing; the tears had stopped shortly after arriving to the hospital. Instead of emotional trauma, she simply felt cold—five years spent searching for her sister, to hold her for a few minutes, and now she was torn away again. A dirty, cruel part of her, like a plant growing without adequate sunlight and only polluted water, hissed at her that she shouldn't have expected anything more: that her sister was dead before Meredith had bothered, just that neither of them realized it.

Amazingly, she drifted off without further incident and without trouble—her sleep was dark and dreamless, as it always was.

Some hours later she rolled over, semiconscious to the feel of the cheap white hospital linen against her bare arms, and realized that something had waken her. Instead of opening her eyes at first, she felt a light wind against her cheek, in her hair—which was dark in the absence of light, and sprawled over the thin, lumpy pillow. There was the sensation of wetness to the air, and the nighttime noises of Gotham were loud enough to let her know that the window was open, and that it was raining outside. With this in mind, she did not panic when she propped herself up, and opened her hazel eyes to meet the long shadow at the other end of the room, respectfully distanced from the foot of her bed.

"Hello," She offered tentatively, unafraid. Meredith supposed that maybe there should be at least a quiver of fear in her bones, but she knew plenty about the dark, both literally and figuratively. Her life had been structured around that darkness, the shadow-side of people. It did not frighten her.

"Sorry to wake you," This time his voice didn't come at her as rough, but rather something like wet velvet.

"I'm sure you could have passed through without waking me." He was silent, but it wasn't a reproachful silence. "Do you need something? I mean, can I help you with anything?" Meredith could have sworn that there was a ghost of a sad smile on his lips, but then he shifted and when the shadows fell back from his face, it was gone.

"Miss Walker, you do more to help city than anyone gives you credit for: you do a very brave and a very needed job. I wanted to thank you again, and see how you were."

"I'm all right," Her answer was weak even to her own ears, sounding watery and fake. She sighed, and decided to try again. "I don't know. I guess it hasn't sunk in yet—it's not like we had long or anything. I hadn't seen her for years." _Part of me was expecting it,_ she almost said, but that was a terrible thing to even think. _Part of me was expecting it because I can't see anything so good ever going right._ "But really, I'm sure you see things like that every night, you don't have to worry about one person."

A longer silence ensued this time, and Meredith realized that it was a sort of confirmation: he saw these things, maybe not every night, but too much. _Even one time's too much,_ she thought, and again, wondered what had dark incident had chased him into this life. She felt guilty for looking at him like a mystery (a habit she had with her patients) and knew that he deserved better than that, but there was little more enticing than the Batman, the Dark Knight; a true son of Gotham.

"How is she? Batgirl, that is?" Meredith didn't mistake it this time; there was a faint smile at the very corners of his mouth.

"She'll make it." He took a step forward, coming more into the light, the then passing through it to the shadows nearer to her bedside. "Your ability to function under that kind of emotional and physical stress saved her life, and you have our gratitude, Miss Walker."

"There was little else I could do… Batman." Meredith felt her own lips waver in an almost smile at saying the name, but after the exhaustion (mental, physical, and emotional) of that night, it was in vain. "I may not be a Leslie Thompkins, that woman's a saint, but I couldn't not help her." She wondered for a moment if the name had had some kind of affect on him—but the shadows made it too hard to tell. Had he drawn quick breath at the name, and if so, why? _None of your business if he did._

"You're doing a thankless job in a thankless city, Miss Walker. We are grateful." His voice was like summer rain on hot pavement, and she let her eyes close to it, resting her head and neck back against the pillow. Sleep, welcoming and pleasant, washed up to her, lapping at the edges of her consciousness—when her eyes fluttered open for a second more, the figure was gone, and all that was left was the sound of Gotham at night, Gotham crying herself to sleep.

Meredith dreamed of deep, brackish water that night; she dreamed of wet velvet and stars out on a humid evening, and when she woke she remembered none of it.


	6. Two Weeks Home Rest

**Author's Note:** I'd like to thank iamhollywood for the two reviews—it really does provide a gratifying sense of accomplishment that other's are taking their time to peruse through my works. Again, if anyone is reading this, any sort of review does help—whether its two sentences or two paragraphs. Even a bad review would be encouragement, at least to make the fanfiction better. Thanks!

* * *

**Chapter Five**

They let her out of the hospital the next day, telling her to get plenty of rest, that she'd need to be at home for a couple of weeks, at least until she could breathe properly and without pain—the wrap should stay on for at least six weeks. They taught her how to bind her ribcage nice and tight, and Meredith was glad that it wouldn't be visible underneath her clothes (though she immediately dismissed the idea as vain). Shortly after getting home she got a call from Jim Gordon himself, letting her know that she didn't have to testify in court unless she wanted to: that they had enough dirt on each of the men that they'd sit in jail without it.

She thanked him, told him that in that case, she had no interest in ever seeing any of their faces again. Gordon had grunted his approval, gave her his condolences, and told her to stay safe, and that if she ever had any problems, not to hesitate to phone the police office. Meredith thanked him again, and when she hung up, the feel of dogged tiredness swept up through her again—all she wanted to do was sleep and forget about this whole mess. Sleep took away the guilt, and best of all, sleep took away the numbness to the guilt.

Often unable to resist to the temptation of sleep, and sometimes without any other choice but to give in, Meredith spent a lot of her two weeks sleeping—she hardly went out at all. In the dead of winter, the weather did not change much at all—winter was at it always was in Gotham: cold, wet but without much snow. There were a few calls from Arkham Asylum, each giving their condolences and letting her know that she could take all the time she needed to recover, but each with its own sense of underlying urgency or anxiety. It had begun to seem suspicious to her, when one day, a few days before her the return was scheduled for work, a call from the asylum came in. It was a man named Pete, Pete Burkham.

"Hello, Meredith?" Meredith had been slightly surprised to get another call from Pete—he and his wife had sent a card, and also given her a call earlier that week. He was the head psychiatrist for the maximum-security patients at Arkham (ie: the murderers that had their own costumes, nicknames, and trademarks that the public was generally aware of).

"Hey Pete, what's up?" Meredith had begun her work with a maximum-security patient about four months earlier: conducting solo therapy sessions with Pamela Isley, or by her criminal name, Poison Ivy. That was going well, as far as she could remember—she had found it almost eerie that she had been able to bond with the other woman so quickly; Meredith assumed, or rather knew, that this was because of her own interest in environmental protection. In her off time she collected articles, magazine clippings, and different pictures that would keep Isley up-to-date on the current environmental issues.

"I'm so sorry to be bothering you Meredith, but I had to get your opinion on this, and I thought you might want to know about it." There was hurried concern in his tone, and she unintentionally gripped the phone tighter, pushing the it hard against her ear.

"What is it? What's wrong Pete?"

"It's about Harvey Dent-"

"Oh." Once Meredith realized what she had said, with such distinct lack of amusement in her voice, she winced, mentally kicking herself. She was reminded of her first session with Dent, roughly a month ago—it hadn't gone well. By the end of the session she was ready to pull her hair out for frustration and his lack of cooperation: she, admittedly, had lost her professional cool. He had said something about her finding him disgusting, thinking that he was below her, and instead of taking the comment in stride and deflecting it with something positive, she had waspishly retorted: 'It's not your face that's hard to get on with'.

Dent had lunged for her, and the two orderlies had barely been able to restrain him in time. Meredith had left that night with a headache and a ball of determined frustration tangled inside of her. She had had an appointment scheduled for another round of solo therapy with him the day after the incident in Old Gotham.

"Yes, well, he's been asking a lot about you lately—when you're coming back, and if he scared you away or not. He's… he's demanding that he be allowed to see you." There was a meek, hesitant waver in Pete Burkham's voice: mass murderers—insane mass murderers no less—asking about you was a very personal matter. _Great,_ Meredith thought to herself, but as a follow-up, _at least it's not Joker, right?_ She was glad that this time she remembered to keep the thought inside of her head instead of blurting it into the receiver.

"Any idea why?"

"Well, for a while he actually reverted to a sort of politeness, saying that he promised to keep his temper under control, and that he was sorry for the way he acted." Pete sighed on the other line. "Personally, I think in a single session you've done something that people working with him for years haven't been able to do—and I think you only managed it because you don't know how to do anything else: you treated him equal, fair. Most of all, you didn't recoil from the sight of his face."

"Don't talk about me like I'm an angel Pete, I've seen plenty of nasty wounds and facial deformities in my time, and I don't need anyone acting like how I treated him was some miracle, it was only common resp-"

"I know, I know Meredith, please, trust me, you're preaching to the choir!" Her heart was beating faster now, and she could feel it under the heavy bandage; her ribs creaked their displeasure with her excitement, and she forced herself to regain her composure. Pete was right: he understood about treating patients like human beings, when some of the workers didn't. _You got upset because you can't handle someone saying such good things about you: not after last week, not after Old Gotham._ Even though she understood why she had become so irritated, it didn't make her feel better. _If I was so damn precious I could have saved my sister._

_I wouldn't have been too late._

She tried to loosen her limbs, to relax, but found it difficult to unclench her jaw.

"But listen Meredith, Merri, look: that's what I'm saying here. I watched the tape, and there wasn't even _one second_ where you flinched or hesitated or went cold at the sight of him. I can't say that about any of the other care-workers, and to be honest, I can't say that for myself. We're fairly sure that that's _why_ he was such a hard case for you the first time: he was deliberately trying to unseat you, trying to get you to react to his deformity. He just couldn't believe that you would treat him fairly, and he didn't know how to deal with it." Meredith slunk back, sulking. She didn't need to hear this, and wasn't proud or flattered to know that the other Asylum caretakers didn't react well to physical abnormalities. What that meant was that the other caretakers and therapists weren't cut out for their jobs: it didn't make her a saint that she could look past that, that she didn't bother acknowledging physical appearance.

_To them, maybe it does._

On the heels of that thought:

_To Harvey Dent, maybe it does._

"Merri, c'mon. I'm just letting you know. Don't get upset—I know it's hard for you when the other workers get upset or have passing jokes about the patients, and that's beautiful. You're one of the best, and that's why we brought you up to work with some of the tougher cases. What I'm saying is that Harvey Dent has taken a particular interest to you, and I'd like that if on the first day you got back, you did a session with both Pamela Isley and then one with him, instead of the group therapy you were going to head." He paused, and Meredith heard him suck his lip, a habit he had. "You don't have to, but his condition is… not good. He skips meals and is hostile; not your fault, not in the least, I'm not saying that at all, but-"

"Don't worry, Pete. I understand; I'll do it. Thanks for calling." Meredith slumped into the nearest chair, and laid her head back against the headrest—she was planning on a short two-minute break to organize her thoughts, but like so many other times in the past two weeks, she didn't even realize as she fell away into sleep.


	7. Madman's Sympathy

**Author's Note: **I know, I'm bad for not putting this up sooner—especially because I've had it ever since I first started with this fanfiction. Now that it's summer I don't really have any more excuses!

* * *

** Chapter Six**

Meredith rested her forehead against the wooden door to the next room. _That's how you know it's the room for healing. It's one of the only doors in this place made out of something that isn't metal._ There was a burning pain behind her eyes, and she knew that it was the threat of a migraine if she didn't watch herself closely. Migraines were not fun business, and here in Arkham it would be like chewing on glass; her first day back, and all she wanted to do was run back home to bed. Something told her that she hadn't taken enough time for herself, hadn't allowed herself enough time to heal—but as compassionate as she was, patience had never been a virtue of hers, and she simply couldn't risk staying home when she knew such an unstable patient demanded to see her.

She wished that she could at least see Pamela Isley first, instead of Harvey Dent, but that wasn't possible. Dent might make her head feel like someone taking a sledgehammer to a ripe watermelon, and that wasn't what she was looking forward to: Isley was generally so much calmer, and Meredith hardly ever found her company to be unpleasant (though maybe awkward at times). Unwilling to have someone find her with her forehead pressed against the door, looking weak and sick, the woman stood straight, and flattened out her white coat.

Plastering on a smile, she blinked into the strong light in the room, grimacing. _Shit,_ she thought to herself. _I can only hope he doesn't think I'm disgusted by his face._ And though it might have seemed psuedo-enlightened, she really _wasn't_ disgusted; Meredith had always known that there were worse things to be disgusted over than physical appearances.

"Can you dim the lights a bit, please? I have a horrible headache." One of the orderlies looked surprised, and glanced over at his buddy, as if to check that they were allowed to do so. When he didn't move quite quick enough to her liking, she lowered her hand from her eyes, and gave him the stern-second-grade-teacher glare. He jumped to the lighting controls. "Thanks." It felt like weight being lifted from her skin, and she breathed more freely.

"Hello Mr. Dent." She lowered herself into the chair opposite of him.

"You can call me Two-Face," He said, and Meredith had almost forgotten how incredibly low and raspy his voice was. She wondered if it was from the acid incident, or if it was his own subconscious projection for who he thought 'Two Face' was.

"I will call you by your name, Mr. Dent." Her eyes had adjusted to the light now and thankfully she felt the sense of the migraine, an imminent thunderstorm within her skull, begin to fade. He was leaned forward towards the table, but with his hands in his lap—she saw the reason why: they were restrained by specially fitted handcuffs that locked a persons hand's in front of them, not held by a chain, but rather like a bar with cushioned ends. She glowered at the sight, and turned her anger towards the nearest orderly. "I thought I said no handcuffs." Meredith had to fight to keep her voice above the hiss that it threatened to become.

Dent had opened his mouth to speak, probably arguing with her about calling him Two-Face or something, but then closed it again: or at least the half that could be closed—the other half was twisted and pulled up and out into an eternal sneer. The orderly blinked, confused, and then put on a sort of patronizing grin, even bowing a little.

"Ma'am, you're in the maximum security sector of Arkham now, I'm afraid-"

"I know damn well-" She cut her tone sort, knowing that it was the headache talking, knowing that it was the sight of her sister clutching her belly talking, knowing that it was Bullock and his mangled sense of compassion talking. "I am aware. Now, remove Mr. Dents handcuffs." As an afterthought: "Please."

"Ma'am, I don't think you understand." The orderly was looking at her with a certain level of disgust, like she was either stupid or extremely naïve. Meredith felt her jaw clench hard, and Harvey Dent was silent at the other end of the five-foot long table. "I can't just-"

"No, sir, I don't think _you _understand. I'm here to do _my_ job, and you're here to do yours. And _your_ job happens to be to do what I say. I am not in the mood to play games with some bouncer with access to tranquilizers."

"I'm here to protect you," He growled back, and now he was looking at her with narrowed vision, as if maybe _she_ was one of the inmates, and no one had noticed yet. For all her gentle nature, Meredith was about drained of patience. There was a second or two of glares from both of them, and then he mumbled something under his breath about 'crazy bitch doctors' and walked over to Dent. "Hands," He grunted, and Harvey Dent held out the cuffs without taking his eyes off of Meredith. She took her eyes away from the orderly, and met her patients. In one of his eyes there was an obvious confusion, dark brown eyebrow knitted tightly over a navy blue iris: the other side of his face was distorted into that continuous mask of hatred, the eye slightly bulging and bloodshot. Meredith was as unfazed as ever.

There was the sound of a click, and the handcuffs snapped off into the orderly's hands—an unmistakable moment of silence passed in anticipation, more so from the orderlies and Dent than from Meredith. When no one moved more a second or two, Meredith felt the urge to roll her eyes, but restrained it. Instead, she settled more into her chair, and drew up a more relaxed smile.

"Thank you, sir," She said, an obvious signal for him to return to his place. He did so without turning his back to Harvey Dent, who was looking at his hands like he had never seen them before. Meredith noted that one was pink, fleshy like a regular hand, where the other was molted and scarred.

"Why'd you do that?" Dent rasped, setting both hands on the table, and looking at her with a certain expectancy, maybe to find out it was some kind of trick.

"Are you more comfortable now?" Meredith asked, raising one eyebrow slightly, and setting up her things: a couple pens and a sketchpad.

"…Yes," Dent answered, as if that didn't really answer his question.

"Then that's why. I wouldn't like being handcuffed during an informal conversation, and I thought to extend the courtesy. Now Mr. Dent-"

"But I could escape! I could probably tear the limbs off of all three of you, if these guys are just standard Arkham security!" His brow stooped low over his eyes, definitely trying to point out some kind of trick in the midst of this. The orderlies both seemed to buzz for a second, nervous hands twitching around the tranquilizer guns at their sides. Meredith had the urge to reach out and smack their wrists like the snouts of misbehaving puppies.

"Maybe, maybe not." She didn't mention that under the desk she had access to a button that caused the room to immediately fill and an extremely potent sleeping gas—if she at any point in time felt Dent was getting out of control, it would take only a second to remedy the situation. Sure that meant that she and the orderlies would all be put to sleep too, but they'd be safer that way. "Is that what you want to do, Mr. Dent? Do you feel like you can't control yourself?"

"I- I can. I want to talk," He looked like part of him may have been mad, may have felt like she tricked him out of his anger—but Meredith inwardly sighed with relief when she noticed something else: his shoulders relaxed, his arms loosened. Part of him was looking for a fight, sure, but the rest of him realized that that fight wasn't with her—and maybe even the rest of him was just glad that he didn't have to fight, that she had taken the option away from him. "Here, at least call me Harvey."

Meredith weighed this in her mind, and decided it was harmless.

"All right. Harvey, is there anything specific that you want to talk about?"

"Are you afraid of me?" It was a blunt question, point-blank.

"No." The answer came easily, truthful. She felt the orderlies watching her, trying to figure out if this was some kind of ploy. Harvey Dent wasn't so suspicious anymore it seemed; instead of narrowed eyes, he was watching her with a strange openness. "Do you think I should be afraid of you?"

"Yes. Well, no. I don't know. Maybe you should, since I'm in here. But I don't think that I want to hurt you." His eyes rolled up a bit, and from the unblemished side of his face, Meredith could see him thinking. _He's trying to answer the question: he's consulting with the Other._ She didn't let her concern show, but she understood something quickly—there was definitely a _large_ rift in his psyche, and that would make her job finding out how deep it was, and whether it was reparable.

"Do you want me to be afraid you?"

"No." There was no hesitation this time, no offbeat. He was cooperating wonderfully, and Meredith had no idea _why._ And it was that simple: 'No'. He hadn't needed to consult the Other, or the Other had intrinsically agreed. Initially she wanted to leap out of her seat for joy, because that simple 'No' meant that there was hope: but the way he was watching her kept her still, bolted to her seat under the weights and nails of professionalism. The way he watched her without the self-consciousness, without the suspicion, all she could do was hope that he wouldn't develop some kind of twisted crush on her. _The last thing I need._

What she did need, though, was some Advil and a hot bath—then a nice long nap. Instead she was sitting across from a man who had been disfigured by a run-in with acid (and it's amazing how _common_ that is in Arkham Asylum) which ended up splitting his psyche completely in two; instead there was a criminal, a madman, sitting across from her (without handcuffs, on her order) looking at her with a creepy kind of admiration and _need._ Meredith recognized most of all his need for acceptance, and knew what it was that had really gotten him to open to her: she had told him she wasn't afraid of him, and having the handcuffs removed had proven it.

He wanted someone to not be afraid of him, not be disgusted by him: and he was ready to follow that person to the gates of Hell.

_You set yourself up for this._

And somehow, and Meredith would have denied it to anyone who ever brought it up, but somehow, just maybe, she saw something sane and sad and so _human_ in Dent, that she almost found that part, for a second, attractive. _You really need sleep. Maybe you _are_ off the deep end._

"You don't think I'm disgusting?" Meredith could see the half of him that was hoping, the half that was puppy-like and wanting—and at once she could see the half that wasn't so trusting, that thought he was only building himself up for a fall.

"No, I don't. But I do think, Harvey, that you've done some disgusting things in your past." _Good. Now we're right where we should be._ His mouth opened slightly, then closed, and he wiped away some of the spit that had collected near the mangled part of his bottom lip. Meredith watched him, ready to slam her open palm into the red button under the table as a moment's notice. Dent didn't know whether to protest this or accept it, she could see that much.

"Yeah, yeah I have. But I-" And then his defense faltered, unable to bring up any good support; and to Meredith's surprise, she could tell that he was going over possible justifications, and trying them out: realizing that she wouldn't accept them. _He's insane, but he's just some of his sense of right and wrong in tact._ _He just either doesn't care, or… no. _Meredith remembered the stories about 'Two-Face', how he used a coin to make all his decisions. Dent didn't completely hold himself responsible, and indulged in that feeling of powerful powerlessness. "Miss Walker?"

"Yes, Mr. Dent?" Meredith was surprised to hear him call her by name, even though it was on her nametag, and even though she knew that he had apparently been asking for her by name for the past few days.

"I'm sorry for how I treated you." She hoped that he wasn't associating her comment with the horrible events in his past as her being upset with him over that; something told her that he both was and wasn't. He probably understood that that hadn't been what she was talking about at all, but to him, that was one of the easier ones to address. Normally Meredith would try to keep the line of the discussion more focused on the patient, but she had quickly realized that when you were working with the mentally unstable, it was good that they be able to ask you questions and bring you into their thoughts—at least at first. If you didn't have trust, you had nothing. "I was a real jackass last time, and I'm sorry. I hope I didn't scare you away."

Meredith found that she enjoyed the sound of his voice; liked it more than Batman's. She couldn't place her finger on it… _You're a real creep,__you know that?_ She scolded herself; but couldn't she like a patient's voice without it meaning something else? _You're just over-thinking it and blowing it out of proportion until you're afraid it actually means something, when it doesn't. You're just touchy. _

"It takes a lot to scare me away, Mr. Dent- Harvey. I had family issues to attend to." Meredith made quick note of their progress, keywords over what had been said (though the hidden tape recorders had caught everything anyway). Something told her that the small movement was just something to occupy her hands, trying to keep her mind from turning to what had happened.

"Oh, I heard. I'm sorry." At first she wasn't quite sure if she understood, and looked up at him rather sharply: Dent was looking at her with an expression that really was remorse (on the side of his face that could show different expressions). There was a second where she thought her heart caught in her chest, half a heartbeat where- _Oh God, he's beautiful-_ she almost thought- _I don't know what I'm going to do_- that there was something- _he's just beautiful_- more.

"Excuse me?"

"I heard about your sister. I mean, sometimes you overhear things, sometimes the doctors or the caretakers talk, and you hear it. I'm sorry." Again, there was a certain lurching feeling in her stomach, seeing the real compassion that was there, the sympathy; maybe even something like understanding loss—but she thought that maybe that lurch was just the fact that her personal story had spread around Arkham, that the _inmates_ had heard about what had happened to her sister. _That's it. That's all it is._

And then there was a shift behind his eyes, and his distorted features became more pronounced, almost more exaggerated. _The Other,_ Meredith had time to think, fingertips finding the smooth, round surface of the button under the table.

"I flipped for them. Bad heads. Those guys got bad heads—means someone ought to kill them."

_He's beautiful and I hate him,_ Meredith thought in one rush, so quickly that it wasn't even coherent in her own mind. Before she could get either orderly any notice, she was outside the room, walking away down the hallway—not running but obviously not stopping for the world. Her pace didn't lessen until she came out of the nearest exit, promptly vomiting behind some nearby bushes. The woman patted down her white lab-coat, readjusted her auburn hair in the bun that held it, and left.

She spent the rest of the night eating chocolate and crying and taking a long, hot bath. When she lay down to sleep, they scene wouldn't stop replaying in her head, until she had lost any ability to, or will to, separate her thoughts and feelings from it.

"Do you want me to be afraid of you?"

"No."

"It takes a lot to scare me away, Mr. Dent."

"Bad heads—means someone ought to kill them."

Meredith fell asleep with the voice of a madman (madmen, ha ha) echoing in her ears, and remembering that one sympathetic, navy blue eye. _I think I love a madman. I think I _want _to love a madman._ For her own sanity's sake, she didn't remember any of this in the morning: remembered nothing after leaving Arkham.


	8. Isley's Recommendation

**Author's Note:** Wow, it seems like I've been getting a lot of reviews all of a sudden! Makes me feel like I should actually be working on this fanfiction (and posting what I do get done, since I've slacked off on that) instead of doing other less productive things. I'd like to thank everyone for the positive reviews. I'll try to keep up the good work, and if the quality slacks off, please feel free to let me know!

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**Chapter Seven**

"Pete? Hey Pete, God, I'm so sorry for how I acted yesterday," Meredith said into the phone receiver, a hand wound into her slept-in hair. After she awoke to find her work clothes strewn near the bathtub, the woman remembered what had happened with Dent. For the life of her she couldn't get him out of her mind, and that scared her, made her stomach clench uncomfortably. _How could I ever find him even slightly attractive?_ She asked herself, trying to seal the image of him from her mind, trying to train herself to hate it even though her morals refused to allow it.

"Pardon my language Merri, but shit, you had every right to leave. It's too soon; I should have never asked you to come in. It's all my fault—and that Dent would know about what happened, that's terrible. If I find out who it is that started it, trust me they'll be dealt with quickly." Pete's voice _was_ very apologetic, and she could tell that he _did_ take the blame for the incident.

"Don't blame yourself, Pete. I acted unprofessionally, and that's not acceptable, especially around such a high-profile, dangerous patient. What happened when I left?" She bit her lip, clenching the phone so tight that her knuckles turned white—_Please don't let Dent have done anything stupid._ She heard him sigh over the phone-line, and could imagine the forty-approaching-fifty year-old man kneading at the bridge of his nose. Her heart sank, and she braced herself for the news.

"Dent tried to get up—apparently he wanted to make sure he could find you and apologize—but the orderlies pumped him so full of tranquilizers before he got to the door that we were afraid for a while that he'd go into a coma. It's a good thing he's a big man too, or that dosage might have even killed him." This was not the kind of news that Meredith had been prepared for, and immediately she felt the bite of guilt that played around her heart, along with the steady ache from her ribs. She cursed under her breath, and tried to decipher the feeling that lay underneath her anger and annoyance at the incompetent orderlies: it was a feeling that rang familiarly of concern. _And that's _all_ it is. Concern for a patient. If the man's life wasn't already traumatic enough, he doesn't need to almost die of a chemical overdose._

"Look, Merri, you don't have to come in, I really wanted to tell you that. Your job will always be here, and everyone understands that you may need more time. That you came back as soon as you did was amazing in itself."

"I'll be in later actually, Pete. I believe I still have a private session with Miss Isley, around four?"

"Meredith, really, you shouldn't feel obliged—you practically _carry_ this place, you deserve all the time that you need-"

"Work should make things better, Pete. I'm over the first real shock now, it'll be okay. I need something to do with my time anyway. How is Dent now though? Is he all right?" When she asked it, there was a hoarse sort of laugh from the other end of the line.

"Well, 'all right' may not be the operative term, but he's doing well physically. He's tired, not to mention grouchy as ever, but I think he feels responsible for the whole thing. We still have him in the hospital wing to monitor his heart, and to make sure his central nervous system doesn't try to kick it."

"Is he in a condition where I could visit him?" Meredith assured herself that the desire to see Dent was purely from the standpoint of a doctor concerned for her patient. After all, it couldn't be something else, could never be anything else. _You really_ are_ still shaken from…before._ It occurred to her that after what had happened, maybe she would be shaken for the rest of her life.

"Yes… I suppose so." There was a hesitating creak in Pete's voice, as he was reluctant to allow one of his best workers—if not his most humble, self-sacrificing worker—to put herself back at work again. "You sure you're coming in then? I can't do anything to stop you?"

"You could try locking me out, but I have a key." She responded, cracking a small smile.

"Yeah, you and every two-bit wacko in the joint, from what we've seen, right?" Though perhaps Meredith shouldn't have found the joke amusing (yes, the criminal escape record was embarrassing, but people die every time one of the patients breaks out, and that isn't a laughing matter) but she allowed herself a wry smile.

"Talk to you later then, Pete."

"Take care of yourself, Merri."

"Will do."

- - -

Later on, Meredith found herself in Pamela Isely's cell, collecting the letters that Isely had written during the past few weeks (there was quite a stack by this time), all either protesting the destruction of some natural wonder, or encouraging major and not so major companies to invest in environmental protection. Isley had first expressed her condolences, and Meredith knew that they really were heartfelt—even if the redheaded woman found the death of plant-life to be incomparably more distressing than the loss of human life.

"They wouldn't send my mail while you were away, Merri," The patient's eyes flared with anger and indignation. "They treat us like we're worthless—I mean, I can understand if you were treating _Joker_ that way, he _IS_ worthless—but like me, I'm actually trying to accomplish something in this world! The orderlies all just laughed, and even the other few doctors just gave me these sad, insipid little looks, like I'm a stupid child!" Meredith secured the letters with a rubber band as Isley slid them across the table to her. The orderlies were busy looking the other way, and Meredith had a feeling that they were part of the group that Isley was speaking of. Meredith knew that what Pamela Isely needed, when she was in one of these moods, was to be allowed to blow herself out; so she didn't bother to interrupt. When at last the major torrent seemed to have ended, Meredith pushed a couple of magazines that she had received recently across the table: one was on the treatment of exotic plants, and the other on the benefits of using green energy. "Thank you," Isely smiled, wildish but grateful. "You know, you're actually not a bad person, for being in this place."

"You welcome, Miss Isely—and the people here aren't so much bad as they're just misguided."

"I wasn't talking about the inmates, Merri, but sure, why not?" Again, a devilish, unbelievably attractive smirk from the gorgeous woman, and Meredith felt the beginning of a question tickle the back of her throat.

"Miss Isely, I have a question for you," Without trying, she accidentally slipped into her more doctor-like tone, and saw Isely slightly tense, preparing herself for some kind of routine questioning and mental analysis: the kind of methods that Meredith would rather avoid, for the most part.

"Go ahead then."

"It's about plants, actually," Meredith offered, smoothing the way a bit; directly after she saw a light come to Isley's eyes, and an open smile come to the woman's full lips.

"Anything," Isely practically purred, happy to be in her element.

"I'm thinking of buying a plant for Mr. Dent—a potted one of course—and I was wondering if you had any tips on the subject." Meredith disliked the way Isley arched an eyebrow at her, didn't want to think about what that small gesture entailed: Pamela Isely, after all, was not afraid to question what Meredith would not. _She's mentally unstable. Certainly she would look for something more intriguing in what is really just a dull, perfectly reasonable question._

"He's an ass. He won't take care of it." The sullen look of irritation on the patient's face meant that Meredith was going to have to step lightly around the issue, and also try not to compromise Dent's privacy at once.

"Miss Isely, I think that it's time for Mr. Dent to have a change of scenery. It might be good for him to have something to look after, don't you think? It might help his problem with aggression."

"Doesn't much help my aggression though, does it?" Isley quickly retorted. There was a beat or two of silence, and then with the smallest of sighs, Meredith gathered her things.

"Well, I'm glad to see that you're still trying to make a positive change, Miss Isely. It's very important that the environment be protected, and you're taking constructive action to achieve that goal. I'll mail your letters right away." Meredith offered the most polite smile she could, though her ribs cried out in pain as she stood from her chair. _You shouldn't have expected help from an Arkham patient anyway. The idea was stupid._ "Have a nice day, Miss Isley."

"Wait, hold on!" The redheaded woman's voice called her back, and Meredith stopped near the doorway, as the orderlies reset her handcuffs in order to escort her back to her cell. "I'm sorry, maybe you're right. You just have to make sure he doesn't kill it, all right?" As Pamela Isley said it, there was a deep worry etched into her brow, like one might see on the face of a parent letting a child out on his or her own for the first time. Meredith was almost shocked by Isley's change of heart—while she supposed that Isley and herself were on good terms with each other, it wasn't so often that the other woman actually offered help, or changed her mind.

"Arkham's pretty dark, so you're going to want to get him something that does well in low light—this is for how the guards nearly killed him, isn't it?" Meredith smiled, gave a tiny nod. She didn't like how the woman put it, but it was fair enough, she supposed. Isley's lips curled up into a broad smile at once, as if she had thought of the most perfect (or most ironic) idea: "I know. Get him a spathiphyllum—that's a type of lily, they're easy enough to get in stores." And then she added, as if as an afterthought, "They aren't toxic or anything."

- - -

When at a store for more tropical type plants, Meredith first pronounced the name wrong—and the worker there corrected her, then lead the way to a decent sized plant with dark green foliage, and white, silky-looking flowers. Upon paying for the plant and receiving a care manual for it, she understood the joke of it: the plant was more commonly known as the 'peace lily'. The woman hoped that the flowering plant would live something up to its name, and returned to Arkham, ready to visit her most recent patient.


	9. Two Questions

**Author's Note:** Yes, I suck. Have had this over a year, and figure I'll at least throw down what's been sitting in my writing folder, collecting cyber-dust.

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Chapter Eight**

"Miss Walker," Harvey Dent was calm, propped up in his hospital bed, and trying his best to give her a welcoming smile. Meredith, despite herself, found something oddly pleasing about it—she realized that what she enjoyed was the fact that the man was smiling, _could bring himself to smile_, rather than the misshapen gesture itself. His eyebrows arched (one more successfully than the other) at the sight of her gift, and when he realized that it really was a gift for him, smiled wider. It was perhaps one of the most outlandish things that Meredith had ever witnessed: one side of the man's face displayed an almost puppy-like joy, while the other half was twisted into its usual sneer.

"Hello Mr. Dent," She replied, setting his lily down on the table next to the bed, along with the book on how to care for it (she had, for the last twenty minutes, been picking the book apart, being sure to look for any harmful possibilities in the care of the plant, but there were none that she found).

"Harvey," He responded in turn. Very suddenly Meredith wasn't sure why she was there, what purpose it was serving: the room felt too small and too confined, as if she were trapped in a stupid, blundering mistake. _You will not run out of the room,_ she commanded herself: _especially not after the last time. _

"How are you?" Meredith asked with a gentle smile. _Something is sickening about this,_ Meredith thought to herself. But was there? Or was she just making it out to be something more than it was, after the trauma of the last few weeks? _Just don't over-analyze yourself. That's a downward spiral that you don't want to start on._

"I'm fine," Dent answered gruffly. "But how are you? I'm sorry, whatever I said, I didn't mean to scare you-" Meredith could see how amiably surprised the man was that she had come to visit him, which did help to make the situation feel less oppressive.

"I'm all-right. I was just… shaken. Mr. Dent—Harvey—I didn't want you to think that my childish behavior was your fault." Meredith made note of the orderly at the back of the room, as well as one in an alcove, behind a glass screen, monitoring the hospital beds. Why did she feel like she was being so closely watched, or as if she was doing something wrong by speaking with her patient?

_Guilty conscience?_

_-Shut up._

And then, after a mental shake:_ Stop arguing with yourself._

"I just, Miss Walker, don't you want those assholes to die?" Dent asked her openly, and Meredith felt herself flinch at the question. _At least you can answer honestly, and just as openly._

"No. I don't, because that doesn't solve anything, Harvey. You can't stop violence with more violence." She could tell that he didn't like to hear that, or at least, the Other didn't like to hear it: mostly refused to listen.

"But if they were dead, they wouldn't hurt anyone else."

_And I'm sure plenty have thought the same of you, Mr. Dent._

"It's a cycle. When justice is equated with death, it teaches that murder is acceptable under certain circumstances, and it never is. Violence always comes back full circle, and I'd rather it just _end_, instead of carrying it on in revenge." Meredith fought the urge to sigh in relief when she saw that Harvey Dent had listened, and had listened carefully. The man fell silent, trying to understand what she had told him, instead of simply refusing to acknowledge another path instead of violence, which he knew so well. "Revenge is _not_ something that should rule a person's life, Harvey. No one wants to be bitter." _And now that you've slipped in a little lesson for the day, why don't you get on with what you came for, and get out?_

"Here, I brought you a plant to watch over—a lily plant. I'm not sure how you feel about flowers, so if you don't like them don't worry, you don't have to take care of them. They do better in low lighting, so I thought that they would do nicely for your room." She slightly raised the clear (hard plastic, shatter-proof) vase the flowers were in, so that he could see them better.

"Er, thanks." Meredith saw some sort of conflict in his eyes, and his left hand twitched for a fleeting moment—and she knew that he wanted to flip, wanted a coin to see whether the flowers were a good idea or not. _Or maybe it's darker than that, _Meredith thought grimly to herself. _Maybe he's deciding whether you're trying to trick him or not—or whether or not he wants to strangle you._

"Your coin isn't here, Harvey."

_And it isn't Harvey that wants the coin, Meredith,_ she thought to herself. _The Other—or maybe it is him that wants it. The coin lets him suspend any remaining conscious he may have._

"Did you take it?"

"No, it's in your room." At this Dent studied her, watched her closely. Meredith did not shirk his madman's glare. "I won't be taking it from you, Harvey, because I believe you need to overcome it by your own free will-"

He offered a dark snicker, which Meredith brushed aside.

"-so it's going to remain available to you. However, I want to start a system where you're rewarded for the less you use the thing—something small, and appropriate of course, but-"

"Two questions," He interrupted. Meredith's brow furrowed lightly in confusion. _A question?_ Questions were not exactly 'Two-Face's forte, and she was left wondering what he meant by it. "I get to ask you two questions, any questions I want. That's what I want." Quickly and without faltering, Meredith tried to run over any harmful possibilities that could arise from this—she was curious, of course: was Dent really trying to play at something else here, or was that a sincere request?

"Mr. Dent, you can ask me questions now, whether you use your coin or not." After all, she wouldn't be a very good therapist if he didn't think that she was approachable enough to ask a question.

"No—you have to answer me completely honestly. No pass-off answers, and none of that doctor bullshit either." There was a ferocity in his gaze that she recognized, with a sort of chill, as the killer, the Other. Absentmindedly, the woman ran a light hand over the surface of one of the lilies, trying to calm her nerves. _Yes,_ she thought. _I guess that could work._ _It'll be interesting, to say the least. Only…_

"Not two questions: one. We'll set up how many days you have to go before you get your first question, but you only get one each time." Her own face was set in determination now, and she saw a sore anger twist at Dent's already distorted features.

"Two questions," He said, his voice more of a growl that usual, which seemed difficult to manage. Meredith didn't budge: after all, what good would she be to any one if her patients held such a sway over her?

"One, Mr. Dent. I'm not going to encourage your streak for duality."

"It's two, or-" Harvey Dent seemed to catch himself, his teeth all displayed in a fierce snarl. Again, Meredith refused to move, would not so much as blink. However, though her features were calm, there was a flash in her eyes.

"Or what, Harvey?" It was manipulation of course, to use his first name in a somewhat stressful situation—but that's what her job was, wasn't it? Meredith believed that she hated deception, but her whole career was based around subtle sleight-of-hands, dodging blame and redirecting focus. While thinking this, she casually shifted the potted plant cradled in her arms—it was fairly heavy, but she wasn't a weak woman. Even the slight movement drew the madman's eyes away for a flicker of a second; he saw the plant, remembered that she had brought him a present, and second-guessed himself. There was a moment where his brow was knit tight, bunched and knotted with angry confusion (confused with what to be angry _at_).

"Okay acid-man, time for your fucking foo-" The orderly wheeling the cart stopped speaking abruptly, and stood at full attention, watching Meredith like a deer might watch the headlights of an oncoming truck. The woman carefully set down the lilies next to Dent's bed, and turned to fully face the man in white, who knew enough about her to be utterly silent as she glowered.

"I'll see you in three days, Mr. Dent: Thursday. Think about my offer—it's one question or no questions at all." Meredith did not believe in violence, abhorred it, but she glared at the insufferable orderly (who was overweight, male, and with an irritatingly lopsided mustache) with an open disgust, that could very well have been interpreted as a desire to wring his fat neck. She walked past him with long, powerful strides, and he pulled back from her when she was near him—as if she was practically a stalking lioness. Despite the orderly's fervent hopes that she would just pass by him, knowing that a man without a job in Gotham was as hopeless as a drop to drink in hell, Meredith made a point of checking his nametag—letting him know that she'd remember his name and face. "If I hear it again, anything like it, you won't even be cleaning toilets in the basement. Do you understand?" Her eyes blazed with a fury that was remarkable, and once more the orderly found it hard to remind himself that this woman was a self-declared pacifist. He nodded curtly, and she blew past him.

The man, who was not very religious now but had been as a child, had the feeling that he had come face the face with an angel. He was reminded of one of the Bible's angels—not today's angels, weak and simpering and cooing—but as strong, ambitious, and forceful as any demon. _Gabriel,_ he thought. _Fire. It's in her eyes._

The man never let another slur about the inmates pass from his lips.

Harvey Dent watched, two separate entities looking out of the same eyes, and tried to understand, tried to come to one conclusion. After all, his coin _was_ all the back in his room—he'd have to decide this one for himself.

Nonviolent force has always been the most powerful kind.


	10. Something to Look Forward To

**Chapter Nine**

The worst of the Gotham winter was over, leaving things still very cold and very wet near the end of February. Meredith especially hated the time of year because it left everyone drained, anxious for spring but without the energy to combat the weary toll that coldness always leaves on warm bodies. There were no crucial breakthroughs with Dent, and in the same bout of misfortune, Isley appeared to be relapsing back into more her violent ways, growing dark and brooding. _It's just the weather,_ Meredith remembered telling herself countless times after the other woman had gone into screaming fits of rage, sometimes over something as small as the change of a channel on the television in the Recreation Room at Arkham. Meredith tried to console herself that it wasn't her fault, but of course she felt the sting of defeat each time she came across another bad report on Isley. _It's just this winter-weather, that's all. She probably hates it even more than the rest of us._

The last month and a half had been spent largely monitoring Harvey Dent; he seemed to have become a particular wild card (though the wildest of all was always Joker, hands down). There would be times where he would try for minutes to decide on a simple, almost shamefully petty choice—or would resort to flipping his coin, and which nearly always sent him into either incredibly aggressive or deeply sullen mood-swings. In the case of aggression, if no one were there for him to direct his anger at, the man would berate himself loudly. There was an instance where he had to be sent to the hospital wing, after breaking two knuckles of his left fist in punching a concrete wall.

That kind of behavior and reaction was not (in the least) what Meredith had hoped for when they had decided on a system of rewarding him for not using the coin. She had hoped that a reward (and he had eventually come around to the idea of a single question) would be enough of an incentive to get him started—and it was—but more and more she had come to see how ingrained the necessity of such a simple decision-maker had become to him. If it hadn't been for the slightly more positive upswing in his behavior over the past week, Meredith had been prepared to call off the whole idea (which was quite a blow to her ego). Though Harvey Dent was now back to being irritable, maybe a bit more than usual, to be fair he had also not used the coin—or any similar device—for roughly a week: a week was also their first goal mark.

Meredith guessed she should be relieved by that, but she didn't have much time lately to let herself relax, and everything always felt that it was coming on at once. Today already was the day when Dent would be allowed to ask his question, and Meredith had no idea whether to be excited or terribly frightened. The nervousness, in a woman that was usually quite comfortable inside of her own skin, was somewhat nauseating. It was all she could think about on her morning drive to Arkham (she didn't trust public transportation, and Arkham was not a place one wished to be stuck at, without a means of escape in the event of something drastic), and all she could think of throughout the day. _What will Dent's question be?_ It seemed strange to her, that the man choose a more… intellectually motivated reward. 'Two-Face' was known for outright brutality (or on certain rare occasions, the absence of any brutality, depending on the flip of a coin, _the_ coin): he was not the type that _schemed—_not in the way of the Riddler or the Joker, for instance.

When Meredith entered in the room she had been using for Harvey Dent's solo therapy, she relished the dimness of it (the orderlies there had quickly, efficiently adjusted to her preferences—she had a feeling that Pete Burkham probably had a word or two with them). At the end of the table, Dent was in his usual spot, slouching a bit in his chair, looking relatively comfortable; however Meredith did sense a sort of jittery tension coming from him. When she touched the table between them as she sat, she imagined that she could feel the edgy nervousness travel through it, from him to her. In a manner that was mostly subconscious, the woman ran her hands over the surface of the table once, lightly—reading what she could, intuiting the rest. _Everyone in Gotham has their quirks,_ she thought to herself, knowing that whatever anxiety Dent felt, she was sharing. _My quirk just happens to be a spot of clairvoyance._

"Hello Mr. Dent."

"Miss Walker." He nodded to her, and his arms crossed over his chest. Meredith found herself being entranced by the way the shadows fell across his face and shoulders—not hiding the sharp contrast in his features, but seeming instead to almost neutralize them. His half-twisted, scarred face appeared more surrealistic, almost like art rather than-

_Task at hand. Now._

Right.

"How are you, Mr. Dent?"

"About to wring Joker's throat, is how I am." Dent shifted in his seat again, the shadows sliding over his form like dark water over silk. His voice resonated in Meredith's core, reverberating from her solar plexus to her toes and fingers.

"Why is that?"

There wasn't a quick or direct answer. Instead the large man looked away, rubbed his fingers together, couldn't seem to find a way he could put it. _Or maybe you're reading too much into it, and not seeing the right things._ Meredith looked again—his fingers were itching for the weight of his jagged coin: _he doesn't know if he should even talk about it or not._

"He's just an asshole." _You can't bring yourself to disagree either, can you?_ "He talks about you, you know." Dent's eyes (one, admittedly, more focused than the other, bulging one) turned to her, and Meredith felt a cold trickle of _fear_ trail down inside of her, to her stomach. There was only one patient at Arkham that truly inspired that reaction in her, and it was Joker. Before having seen that man, Meredith had believed (naively) that all mental illnesses could have some extent of a cure.

She had been wrong.

"And what does he say?" The orderlies, Meredith saw from the corners of her eyes, were also tense with listening—she could imagine the lumps in their throats, straining to hold their breath.

"He likes to mention your name to me. He thinks I've got something for you, and he likes to think of hurting you to see what I'd do. He'll ask me how you are, those things." It was a lot for Dent to say at once, and Meredith listened acutely.

"What bothers you the most about that, Harvey?" _You would like to know, wouldn't you? It's the same thing that bothers you about the way the shadows pour over him, spilling around his shoulders and neck._

_Bothers, of course, isn't quite the right word._

_No,_ Meredith countered. _No, it's a perfectly legitimate question for a therapist to ask. Perfectly legitimate. _

There was a dark part of her that snickered, and then quieted.

"What bothers me most?" His eyes made quick, almost dance-like movements, darting back and forth, searching for the answer. "It bothers me because you're the only person in this building that treats me like a fucking human being, and you're the only person that isn't afraid of me." Meredith saw him open in the second after he said it, indescribably vulnerable. _He's laid part of himself out on the table, and its something that both sides of him agree on. Don't mess this up, Meredith._

But how did one reply to that?

"Joker will do anything to get under your skin, Harvey. There isn't any hope for him-"

"And you think there is for me?" The tone in his voice shifted slightly, but there was certainly still that level of neediness, of vulnerability, that Meredith could clearly detect. Honestly, Meredith didn't know, _couldn't_ know._ But he's not asking you to know, he's asking what you think._

"Healing is up to the patient Ha-"

"No, that's my question, right there, and you can't give me any self-help bullshit. I want to know if you think that I can… get better." Then, with his voice dropping a note lower. "Don't lie, either."

_Then he acknowledges that something is wrong with him. That's good._

_He hasn't lost sight of himself. Maybe._

Meredith took a breath, steadied herself: it was a good first question, and she knew that he'd know if she _did_ lie anyway—she was not good at direct lies, especially under this kind of pressure. She held her breath, braced herself, and jumped.

"Yes."

Dent watched her for a moment longer, his eye burning with intense, fierce scrutiny. Meredith kept her face artfully blank, tried to reflect a portion of that ferocity. The man leaned back in his chair, and as simply as that, said, "Okay."

"Okay?" Meredith asked, uneasy—somewhat stunned, before she could imagine something more polite to say.

"I believe you. You believe what you're saying," Dent growled. _And it's not, as he put it, just 'bullshit' either—he knows I'm not playing the "there's a cure for everyone" game with him. After all, it was maybe two minutes ago that I told him that there wasn't any hope for Joker._

The rest of her session with Harvey Dent went almost shamefully smoothly.

- - -

Leaving at the end of her workday, Meredith was approached by Pete Burkham.

"Meredith, wait for a second," He called to her as she passed his office, and she went in. It felt to her that an enormous weight had been lifted from her shoulders; some of the storm had seemed to pass, and Dent might start to shape up.

"Yeah Pete? I'm just about heading out." She took a look around his office—a place that was oddly cozy in the midst of the otherwise barren and desolate walls of Arkham.

"I know, this won't take long. On May 1st, Bruce Wayne is holding a charity party, fundraising for Gotham primary schools. I've been invited along with my wife, but she's going to be out of the country at the time, visiting her mother in England." He smiled, rifled through a stack of papers, and retrieved an official looking piece of parchment. "I wouldn't want the invitation to go to waste."

"Pete, I don't have the kind of money to get into socialite charity parties." Meredith tried to show her gratitude, but felt somewhat trapped. Pete should know that she wasn't exactly paid a king's ransom for her work.

"Don't worry about it, it's already been paid for. Think of it as a bonus for how hard you've always worked, and how far you've come with our patients."

"I can't accept this, I didn't earn-"

"You will, and you did. C'mon Meredith, it'll be good for everyone. You'll get to explore some of the Gotham social setting, and maybe they'll turn a more sympathetic eye towards the work we do. You're the best worker I have, and I'd love for you to be there."

Meredith worked her jaw for a moment; accepting such valuable gifts did not come easily for her. At last, however, she nodded.

"Thanks Peter. It means a lot."

"Couldn't think of anyone that deserved it more."


	11. Brief Conversation with Isley

**Chapter Ten**

"You seem anxious, Meredith." Isley arched a scarlet eyebrow at her, and turned the page of a pamphlet from the Green Peace awareness package that Meredith had delivered to her. She was lounging in the Arkham recreational area at the time, and though she tried to appear cool and collected when Meredith had given her the parcel, her eyes had lit up and she dug into the brown paper packaging like a kid on Christmas morning. After that was finished, Isley had slipped back into her normal 'smooth' evenness that she possessed with Meredith. "Hot date tonight?" The woman's voice sunk low, nearly sultry. Meredith shifted somewhat uncomfortably—but more in the sense that she knew better than to let herself get comfortable. Pamela Isley may have at times put on a 'girls-at-a-sleepover' act, but there was no doubt about why she was confined without the walls of Arkham.

"Sort of. There's a charity ball tonight at Wayne Manor-"

"Filthy pig of a man always building and building and building." Isley's tone came out in a hiss from between her teeth, but her eyes stayed trained on her the new magazine that she had opened. It was Meredith's turn to raise an eyebrow, and she decided to hear the other woman out, not without slight amusement. "He doesn't care a bit for Mother Nature or the plants that his rotting bulldozers destroy."

"Actually, Isley, that appears to be quite the opposite." Meredith found herself nearly biting her cheek—hadn't just yesterday a short special aired on glamorizing big businessmen that protected the environment too, with Bruce Wayne receiving some of the highest praise? "It seems that nearly every and any company Wayne is involved in, has a good record with environmental protection—not to mention that he is known for donating millions directly to preserving the rainforests, as well as cleaning up Gotham's own parks."

Isley took the time to lay down her reading material, and sent a glowering, irritated look at Meredith, and it hit home deep. _Why is she looking at me like I should be ashamed of myself?_ She thought that at the most Pamela would grunt at her and go on reading.

"Look outside, _doctor._ Go ahead sometime. Maybe not through the barred windows here, but look at _Gotham._" The woman's green eyes blazed, and even in the frumpy, bag-like inmate clothing, she was still incredibly beautiful. "Gotham belongs to Bruce Wayne, so don't be stupid. If he wanted to pick this city up—make the skies cleaner and the water less filthy, give the trees more room to grow, then he could. He profits off of strangling the planet and Gotham just as much as any other greedy bastard. He does just enough that he can still profit off of her filth."

Meredith was fairly shocked—she had never been so effectively chastised by one of her patients, even so far back as when she was a therapist for men and women who were _not_ legally insane. Her mouth opened slightly and then she recomposed herself, which took a surprising amount of effort. _Why are you letting this hit you so hard, Meredith? Nothing done for the Earth will ever be enough for this woman, and you know that. Wayne and all his rich buddies could sell everything they own in the name of the environment, and it wouldn't change her mind._

"It isn't fair to place the blame for the state of this city on one man, Miss Isley." Her tone was clipped and highly professional. "Anyway, perhaps I'll propose the idea to someone for funding the placement of solar panels on the Arkham roof and other places on the ground. It would be clean energy and could cut a lot of the cost of our utility." This time Isley returned to how Meredith usually saw her: a fiery woman that regarded her as an ally in making Gotham more suitable for plant-life, though not a friend.

"That's a good plan. Maybe your precious Bruce Wayne will fund it all by himself," She snickered, but there was less of the frustration in her voice than had been there a moment ago.

"Maybe he will." Meredith offered coolly, unwilling to get into an argument with her patient.


	12. Heartfelt Apology

**Author's Note:** This is where I stopped writing, something like over a year ago. Thank you everyone for all the reviews, they have meant so much. I'm not sure if the story will ever be finished, but I'm glad that it was enjoyable for what it was.

**Chapter 11**

"Hello Burkham, and who's this? She's certainly not Mrs. Burkham!" Bruce Wayne shook hands with Pete Burkham, the head of the maximum-security personnel at Arkham Asylum. Meredith, though she had obviously heard the stories of the partying bachelor Wayne, was still somewhat surprised by such a greeting from the most powerful socialite in Gotham city.

"This is Meredith Walker, Mr. Wayne. She's my best worker." Pete glowed while he said it, and didn't bother with looking embarrassed when Meredith shot him a surprised, uncomfortable glance. "My wife's visiting her mother in England, couldn't make it."

Wayne turned his full focus onto her now, and she felt her stomach crawl into her throat—and die there. There was no question that she was not the most outgoing person around, but when it came down to it, some part of her felt that it wasn't just the common 'normal citizen meets celebrity' shock. _What else would it be?_ She asked herself, and painted a smile over her distress. His interest in her seemed so _sharp,_ so _focused,_ so _looking-for-something._

_Don't be stupid_, she told herself. _It's the same kind of attentive charisma that makes him so charming to ladies. And you're not the kind to simper._

But that wasn't all of it, either.

Was there possibly, somehow, _recognition_ in his glance?

_He's seen me before, but I haven't seen him._

But that wasn't right.

"Hello, Miss—Missus? Walker-"

"Miss," She answered, smiling.

"Even better," Wayne grinned, and Meredith felt like she was looking at a portrait of a human, rather than someone flesh and blood. For the life of her, she had the strongest urge just to reach out and _touch_ him, to make sure he was really there. "Miss Walker, I'm Bruce Wayne. Nice to meet you." He smiled winningly, a mouth full of perfectly straight teeth. _But there's a bit too much of them showing in it. The smile's forced, though he's had a lot of practice._

Normal, though, wasn't that? Didn't a socialite, a celebrity, _have_ to learn how to force smiles? Meredith found herself becoming more and more unsettled, more uneasy in Wayne's presence than she was in Isley's-

_Or Harvey's-_

_­-_Or Dent's.

"Charmed, Mr. Wayne." She smiled back at him and pushed the word from her mouth, though in actuality she felt like she was riding a wave of nausea. Meredith expected him to pass on by them then, onwards towards his socialite 'friends' and greeting other arriving guests—her level of discomfort only continued to rise as he remained in front of her, still forcing that smile that was so well-practiced that it was almost real.

"I'd love to hear about your work some time, Ms. Walker." He sounded sincere, and Meredith found herself searching for something inside of his eyes, scrutinizing him in a way she didn't even with her patients—he was telling the truth about that, more genuine in his words than his smile had been. _So the rich boy wants to hear about crazies—what's surprising about that?_

But—and damn, it felt as if there was always a '_but'_ snuck in her thoughts now—she didn't think that was the whole of it.

When he was at last drawn away towards other guests, Meredith breathed deeply. Pete Burkham had left, gone to socialize for himself, and she was alone to find other company. Pete wasn't really an inconsiderate man, but he was perhaps a shade on the side of absentmindedness. Meredith managed to be drawn into a few polite conversations, but after a couple of hours, felt a migraine encroaching on her psyche. After asking who appeared to be Mr. Wayne's butler, Meredith sought out the bathroom.

Collecting herself a bit, she decided it was time to stop hiding—the worst of the migraine seemed to subside (and she had resisted the overwhelming urge to go through Wayne's medicine cabinet, which was incredibly tempting at the thought of some possible prescription painkillers: he was a celebrity after all, right?). Meredith left the bathroom, and on her way back to the party, an open door (which she was sure had been closed when she first passed) caught her eye. _I won't be missed,_ she thought, and slid into the dark room. Instinctively her hand sought out a light switch on the side wall, and met five separate choices—with a bit of exploring, she determined that two controlled dimming, two different sets of ceiling lights, and one the lights for the displays.

The displays were different warfare artifacts: each looking very old and very authentic. Though a pacifist, Meredith couldn't help but find herself intrigued. She walked forward, almost swaying in her heels, and began to inspect the different showcases as one might in a museum exhibit; there were even little plagues with information at the bottom.

_Who is this man?_ She found herself asking. _There is something deeper here, and I'm not seeing it._ And then, Meredith scolded herself: _Wayne? Deeper? Don't fool yourself Meredith. This undoubtedly all belonged to his father or grandfather, and I bet no one comes in here save for the butler, to dust things off from time to time-_

She heard footsteps, and half turned to the sound of them. It was odd—like someone was _trying_ to be heard, walking just a bit too heavily than a person normally would. _Who's afraid of sneaking up on me, and why?_ Meredith turned fully at the thought, and found Bruce Wayne only four feet away from her, standing with his arms behind his back. _Walked so I could hear him, but still got that close without me knowing._ And then: _What am I not seeing? Is this guy just some sort of weirdo, or am I really missing something?_

"So you found my armory," Wayne offered, with a good-natured laugh in his voice (which was, Meredith surmised, fake).

"Sorry for wandering off inside of your home-"

"Don't worry about it, you're not doing any damage." He smiled, and this one was slightly more real, she felt.

"Parties were never really one of my things," Meredith admitted, lowering her eyes: embarrassed, as if she were caught doing something wrong.

"Would you believe me if I said the same?" His response was playful, but she sensed, again, that Wayne was only trying to lead her into thinking he wasn't telling the truth. _What is it you heard once? Just because the water's still on the surface, doesn't mean there aren't crocodiles underneath?_

"No, probably not." She smiled, and he laughed. "I don't mean to take you away from your event, Mr. Wayne, I'll return to the party so you don't have to round up a wayward guest."

"No, I actually did want to ask you about your work." And in spite of her previous image of him, he did get more serious, the focus of his eyes slipping behind a few more shades of intensity with an ease that was distressing. "Pete tells me that you work with Pamela Isley?" She felt her eyebrows arch slightly: he had used her real name, not the costumed one—she was surprised by this, but grateful.

"Yes, I do."

"How is that going? He's said that you've been able to get through to her from time to time, that she perhaps even respects you, as much as she can."

"It's going as well as it can, I suppose. As for respect—I don't know if I'd call it that." Meredith smiled weakly, not particularly liking to talk about her patients with this man, who was undoubtedly using his celebrity status to help feed some hunger for hearing about the darker side of things, the scarred side of Gotham-

-_do you hear yourself? The scarred side of Gotham? Who does that remind you of?_

She pushed the thought away. Anyway: if they were on the subject of Isley, she could introduce the idea of solar panels around the Arkham grounds, to help cut down energy costs.

"It's more that I'm willing to acknowledge her… interests more than other doctor's. Some of them call it fueling the flame, which I suppose isn't too far from the truth—but I don't believe that completely ignoring a patient's personality is the right way to handle things. For example, I give Ms. Isley a few magazines every month, each concerning environmental protection around the globe—and for that matter, I remove anything that's local, because I don't think she'd be ready for that." Meredith paused, trying to gauge his interest level, and the best way to proceed: she found that Wayne was watching her with superb concentration. Sensing that she was looking for some kind of reply to go on, he pulled the corners of his lips into a small smile.

"Of course: if she were to hear about local environmental skirmishes, she'd be too tempted to break away from Arkham." He nodded as he commented, having paid the toll, and she went on, more refreshed.

"She writes letters to head companies, though she is never allowed names or addresses—I am the only one to be in contact with her letters for mailing and reviewing purposes. I don't know how interested you are in the mechanics of what I'm trying to accomplish," Meredith was almost shocked by the intensity (though she thought that he was trying to hide it, too) with which he followed her words. "More or less what I'm trying to do is reform what negative, aggressive parts of Isley's psyche I can, without trying to break her personality. Which is, I believe, why she appreciates me, if I wouldn't call it respect."

There was a moment of silence between them, and Meredith had the distinct feeling that Wayne was storing away what she had just said, placing it all into his memory, before the conversation continued.

"And how does this work in cases like Harvey Dent—you work with him, too, if I recall correctly?" _How does he know this? _She thought with a touch of unease. _Pete really told him all of this?_

"Dent's case is different, and needs a different approach. Isley has connected herself with the pull of environmental issues, and thus it's possible to try to redirect her negative aggression into positive activism. Sort of how a whole river can be diverted, if you start at the mouth of it. Dent…" Meredith sighed slightly trying to think of a way to put it.

"His demons are internalized, not external entities like Isley's." He said it exactly, without any show or flash for the effort. Meredith was undeniably impressed, probably because she had been trying to convince herself that Wayne was simply listening for the thrill of it.

"Is there a reason you let people underestimate you, Mr. Wayne?" She asked, and though she smiled when she said it, she was unquestionably serious. He simply laughed, and she found it slightly odd that he looked away from her as he did. "Actually, there is a plan that I've been discussing with Pete and even Ms. Isley for Arkham. We were looking into getting solar panels, and more green, renewable energy for the asylum. It would be better for the environment sure, but it would also help us to pay less for energy in the long run—money that could be well spent on better facilities and patient care."

"I'm sure I could help with the funding, Ms. Walker." Wayne said, obviously knowing what she was reaching for. "So tell me, have you ever met the Batman?" _He's digging for something here, trying to place me_, she thought, biting the inner wall of her cheek.

"Maybe I've seen figures in the shadows once or twice, Mr. Wayne." Meredith offered with a sort of 'What-kind-of-woman-do-you-think-I-am?' tone of voice. The kind that said: 'look, I'm not _crazy_, all right?' "Why do you ask?"

"Curiosity, mostly. And because the Arkham Asylum inmates seem to go where he is, or he goes where they are: one way or another." There was a careful, constructed heft in his voice that she couldn't mark. _He really is just looking for good stories to tell his buddies. And I was stupid enough to think that there was something deeper there._ Her mouth drew into a tight line, feeling almost cheated that she had divulged information about her patients (though it wasn't anything more incriminating than what he already knew, certainly) to a man who was just seeking some kind of petty excitement.

"For all I know about the Batman, Mr. Wayne, you two could be one in the same," Meredith said, none too gently. This however, seemed to grab his attention.

"Why would you say that? Maybe there's a small resemblance in physique-" He briefly flexed (though she thought it might have been half-hearted), and Meredith's irritation grew. Was he deliberately acting juvenile?

"Coming from someone who works with a patient who has a severe case of multiple personality disorder, I'd say that you'd be perfect. The… playboy image would cover the more serious one nicely, and would avert searching eyes—don't you agree?" _Do not let yourself get too annoyed, Meredith. He's an important figure, and you don't want to mock him._

"Actually, I do agree. Go on," He smiled, flashy and again too full of teeth. _He's enjoying this. Of course he is; being related to Batman would stroke just about any man's ego, wouldn't it?_

"You have incredible access to any of the money you would need to purchase gear, or whatever the Batman uses—such as his fabled Batmobile." _Which you saw—along with the other gadgets, like the tiny communication screen in Batgirl's gauntlet._ "Even without the supply of ready money, you own WayneTech, which doesn't exactly specialize in Girl Scout cookies, does it?" _Not that this man probably even inspects what his company makes—he probably has _'people'_ for that._

Even as she spoke and derided him in her mind, she dismissed the ideas themselves: though the 'evidence' was right on target, she couldn't, _wouldn't_ allow herself to believe that there was any possibility that _this_ was the man who she had met the night of her sister's death. She would not do the Batman the disservice of thinking that somehow Bruce Wayne was really there in the hospital, telling her that she did a 'thankless job in a thankless city'.

It was… inconceivable.

Wasn't it?

But there was that nagging, incessant feeling that she was _missing _something, something right under her nose. _If you want to see the big picture, hun, you have to step out from the framework._

Wayne was now laughing, loud and carrying, and it grated her nerves in the worst way—as if she were there only to amuse him, and that had been her purpose the entire time. It did not occur to her that this was in an attempt to ward her off of the subject, to have her become flustered and angry, and make her walk away from him. Meredith set her jaw, her molars grinding against each other, and held on.

"But of course, Mr. Wayne, you have the most important aspect of the costumed-variety mentally deranged." _This should shut him up,_ she thought, and before she could reconcile the idea, it was out of her mouth. "You have motive."

As soon as she said it, she winced, her eyes squeezing shut in a tight grimace. _Too far. You took it too far._ With her eyes closed, she did not see the look of stunned surprise on Bruce Wayne's face, his mouth a little a jar. He forced himself to let the laughter trickle to a stop, rather than halting it abruptly (and since it had been fake to begin with, it was harder to do the former). Before he could speak, she turned away from him.

"I'm sorry. That was low, and inappropriate. I apologize."

He stepped closer to her, and she felt the weight of his hand on her shoulder—exactly like…

exactly like…

She whirled, pivoting dangerously fast on her heels, and caught his arm. His eyes went wide, and Meredith focused, pried a little into them, urged herself to _feel something there_, pushing her small ability as far as it would go.

_a flash of light, twice, each with a roar of a gun-_

_-something falling to the ground, small and round-_

_beads?_

_no. Pearls._

_and then, with it, bats—bats bats bats, everywhere softly furred and _

_screaming and screaming and mom's dead dad's dead_

_brucie's dead_

_i am the night because_

_(criminals are a cowardly and suspicious lot)_

_brucie's dead._

Meredith's knees gave out—it was like plugging her mind into a raw electrical outlet. He caught her, held her up, without any effort at all. She could see it in his eyes: _he knows that I know._

"I'm sorry," She whispered, and he held her up by her shoulders. Sorry for what, was not clear: sorry that she had tried to hurt him by implying that his parents death made him run around as a bat at night (which it did)? Sorry that it had happened? Sorry that she had briefly pried into the privacy of his mind? Sorry that she knew? Sorry that things were just so damn hard all the time?

"I'm so sorry."


End file.
